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I'm walking on sunshine with a good feeling in my belly as I walk out of the Frontline building. I still have some slight reservations about being a personal assistant, but Ms. Reynolds did a lot to assuage my concerns by telling me a bit more about my potential new boss, Mr. Steel.
I can tell she has nothing but respect for the man. Not just by the way she only refers to him as Mr. Steel and never anything else, but by the way she speaks of him. She admires him. I'd even say she's in awe of him, which makes me curious. I understand he built the company up from a one-room operation into the multi-billion dollar company it is now – which is definitely impressive.
But she also told me a few things about him as a person. Even though he's a strict taskmaster, she says he's incredibly kind and generous. Ms. Reynolds had been his PA for a few years before he decided that she was wasting her talents and intelligence, so he paid for her to go to school and gave her the freedom to do anything she wanted with her life.
That she chose to use her degree to return to Frontline, I think, says a lot about her and this Mr. Steel.
My spirits buoyed and feeling optimistic, I decide to run down to the coffee house just around the corner to grab a drink and a pastry to celebrate. I know I shouldn't be counting my chickens before they hatch and all that, but I really feel like my chances are good. Better than good, maybe. I want to believe this job is mine to lose.
I'm practically bouncing down the street, a fun song in my head, when the feeling that I'm being watched suddenly washes over me. I feel a slight prickling on the back of my neck and the hair on my arms stands up on end. I wish I could say I'm being paranoid but it's a feeling I've had to learn to live with for the past year or so. I know it well and know exactly why I'm having it – and it's not because I'm paranoid.
I stop in my tracks on the sidewalk and turn around, scanning the street all around me. There are people crowding the sidewalk, but it doesn't take me long to pick him out from the crowd. And when my eyes fall on his, my stomach lurches and an electric current of fear shoots through me.
He's standing on the sidewalk about fifty yards behind me, his dark hair falling over his face, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes riveted to me.
My mouth suddenly grows as dry as the Sahara and there's a fluttering in my chest. A fear-fueled energy saturates my soul. Robert is just standing there, waiting. Watching. The people flow around him like water flows around a rock in the middle of a river, everybody seeming to maybe subconsciously know to give him a wide berth.
Robert Anderson isn't well. Not at all. We'd dated briefly after I left college and came back to LA. At the time, I was devastated and lonely. I felt like all of my true friends were back in New York and that I had nobody and nothing here for me in Southern California anymore. It was the lowest point of my life that I can ever remember.
Robert came into my life at just the right time – or the wrong time, as it turned out. He and I had started dating when I was broken. Run down. I wasn't in the best place in my own heart, mind, and soul, and like a shark can smell blood in the water, it seems like Robert had been able to smell out my weakness, because he pounced quickly.
And make no mistake, the comparison to a shark is both intentional and appropriate because Robert Anderson is – among other things – a predator.
We'd been dating for a month or so the first time he hit me. Oh, he felt bad and apologized up and down for it. He even bought me some nice things as a way of saying he was sorry. As if a new pair of shoes can ever really take the sting out of somebody you supposedly care about slapping you.
But being in that low, dark place in my life, I forgave him. I took him back and gave him a second chance. And a third. And a fourth. It wasn't until we were about a year into our ‘relationship’ that I finally reached my personal tipping point. It's when I came out of the dark funk and found my way back to myself. After that happened, I showed Robert the door very quickly. I cut him out of my life and tried to move forward on my own.
Since then, though, Robert has been stalking me. He shows up in places where I am and just stands there watching me. At first, I thought it was sad and kind of pathetic. Now, I think it's creepy and downright terrifying. I have no idea how he knows where I am. It's like he sits outside my condo and waits for me to leave, following me from there or something.
It's not an everyday thing, it's only every now and then, which somehow makes seeing him turn up like this all the more ominous to me. That sort of unpredictability scares me. It's like he can show up anywhere at any point in time, springing out at me like some Jack-in-the-box from Hell.
Each and every time he materializes out of the blue like this, I feel that uncontrollable fear I felt for so long when I lived under his thumb. I feel that same sense of powerlessness that gripped me when I lived my life never knowing if he was going to beat me – or whether that was the day he would go too far and kill me. I'm reminded of that sense of loss that consumed me when I allowed him to strip me of my identity.
I've spoken to the police several times about it, but they say there's nothing they can do. They tell me since he hasn't actually done anything, their hands are tied. Apparently, being a creepy asshole isn't a crime. I guess he needs to kill me before they actually take action. Yeah, great. That's going to do me a lot of good. I was able to get a restraining order because I was able to show them pictures of the bruises he left on me after one particularly bad night, but until he actually violates the terms set forth in it, they say there's nothing they can do.
Apparently, following me around just outside the fifty-yard boundary isn't enough to violate the order and arrest him. What kind of crap laws do we have that I have absolutely no power or control to protect myself – not until it's too late?
I turn away and practically run to the coffee shop. Bursting through the doors, I jump into line and turn around. Robert is hanging around outside – I can see him through the front windows. He just leans against the wall and stares in at me like I'm an exhibit down at the zoo or something.
Goosebumps crawl up and down my arms and that ever so familiar and cliché cold chill dances up my spine. Something about the way he's looking at me is different. There's an intensity in his eyes I haven't seen before. I don't know what's changed, but I know it can't be good. That feeling of dread lurking in my heart only deepens.
I pick up my order from the counter and turn back to the shop. I have two choices – I can sit in here, drink my coffee and eat my pastry, hoping against all hope that he'll leave, or I can hustle out, try to lose him in the crowd, and get away from him.
After a moment's thought, I realize that he's not going to leave. He's going to stand out there until I go and then follow me around. And since I'm not going straight home, I think maybe I have a chance of losing him altogether. I want to enjoy my damn coffee and bask in my happiness over nailing my interview – not sit here with this feeling of dread creeping down on me.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, steeling myself for the road ahead. It's not all that far to the underground parking garage. All I need to do is get there, get in my car, and get the hell out of here.
“I can do this,” I whisper. “I got this.”
Gripping my coffee cup and pastry bag perhaps a little too tightly, I march out the door, hook a right, and take off at a brisk walk. When Robert falls into step beside me, I feel a stab of fear, but clench my jaw and keep moving. He's so close I can hear him breathing and feel the crushing weight of his gaze on me. The crowd on the sidewalk flows around us as we go, and I'm doing my best to not look over at him – the last thing I want to do is set him off by making accidental contact with him.
“Why are you fighting this?” he asks, as if he genuinely doesn't understand. “You know we're supposed to be together, Emily.”
I say nothing, keeping my eyes forward, and keep moving, doing my best to shut his voice out of my head. Not that it deters him. He usually doesn't speak to me – he just stands back and stares, which is somehow even creepier to me. When he does step up and speak to me though, he just keeps going and going and going.
“Look, I know I made some mistakes. I want to make up for all of them, Emily. I want to fix this,” he pleads. “I know we can fix this if you just give me a chance.”
